


Baggage Reclaim

by wagamiller



Series: 35B [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fear of Flying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-10 12:54:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4392686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wagamiller/pseuds/wagamiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Oliver walks out into the small crowd of press like it’s no big deal, like paparazzi and shouting always greet his return home. Actually, come to think of it, they probably do.</i>
</p><p> <i>Because he’s Oliver <b>freaking</b> Queen.</i></p><p>Follow up to In-Flight Entertainment, an Olicity flying!AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who was so enthusiastic and lovely about this AU! Here's a follow-up, which picks up pretty much immediately after In-Flight Entertainment ends.

 

* * *

 

Felicity considers her reflection in the mirror and groans.

Wow, long flights are gross.

It wasn’t the red eye, but apparently no-one told her eyes that. They’re bloodshot and watery behind her glasses. And her skin! God, it’s like something leached all the moisture out. She paws at it, frowning at the cruelty of airport lighting, before rummaging in her bag for some moisturiser and a tinted lip balm.

It’s really not that she’s vain, it’s just that Oliver’s standing right outside, waiting for her by some unspoken arrangement and yeah, ok, sue her, she wants to looks nice. Or alive, at least. At this point she'd settle for alive.

Re-doing her ponytail, she pauses to consider her reflection again.

Meh.

You know what, who the hell cares?

It’s not like anyone knows her here anyway. There’s no-one waiting in Arrivals to side-eye the baggy knees in her leggings. And besides, Oliver obviously thought the terrified, messy-haired, crumbs-all-over-her-shirt version of herself from the plane was worth talking to. And almost kissing, she remembers, with a jolt. Grinning at her pale-faced reflection, she heads back out to find him.

Oliver’s lounging against against the wall outside, her suitcase at his side, his suit carrier carelessly draped over it. Because yeah, he's got a suit carrier. For, y’know, _suits._  

“Shall we?” Felicity says, taking her case and jerking her head in the direction of the exits. Which, for the record, Oliver totally could have gone to already. If he hadn’t chosen to wait for her and extend their time together by ... about three extra minutes. Her stomach does this silly little flip because -- ridiculously hot guy! Waiting! _For her!_ Baggy knees and all.

Oliver just smiles in greeting, kicking off the wall and following obediently beside her. Like a puppy, she thinks, absurdly. Can I keep him?

 

* * *

 

About ten paces from the exit door, it all starts to go wrong.

Oliver stops dead, so suddenly that she almost walks into him.

“Oliver?”

He’s looking at something on his phone, his face set, jaw rigid.

“What is it? Hey, what’s wrong?”

Oliver slips his phone into his back pocket, sighing.

“Hey,” Felicity tries again, reaching for his arm. “What’s going on?”

When her hand lands on his arm, Oliver seems to finally realise that she’s speaking to him. Jerking in surprise at the contact, he turns to face her.

Um. This is bad. This is very, very not good.

Oliver’s lips are set in a thin line, his eyes downcast and almost … ashamed? He looks like a man condemned, suddenly older and wearier than a moment ago.

“Felicity, I have to tell you something–”

Anxiety creeps up on her, unfocused and vague.

“And you’re not going to like it.”

“What is it?” she demands, his vague words setting her on edge. She starts walking again, drifting towards the exit. “What was that message? What’s out there?”

“Wait! Felicity, please let me explain first–”

Oliver reaches for her but she twists out of his grasp and walks on until she’s close enough that the automatic doors slide smoothly open, revealing the Arrivals Hall.

Oliver’s breath hitches and he calls out to her to slow down, to wait, but it’s too late.

The flashbulbs have already started.

Felicity pauses on the threshold, dazzled. “What–”

“I’m so sorry." Oliver murmurs, flicking one last pained look at her before squaring his shoulders and walking out into the crowd.

Felicity follows dumbly a few steps behind, so dazed by the flashes that it takes a second for the voices to even register.

They’re calling a name.

“Mr Queen!”

Over and over.

“Mr Queen!”

Louder and louder.

“MR QUEEN!”

Oh.

Hell.

No.

Oliver walks out into the small crowd of press like it’s no big deal, like paparazzi and shouting always greet his return home. Actually, come to think of it, they probably do.

Because he’s Oliver _freaking_ Queen.

There’s actually only a handful of reporters but the constant flashes and the sheer noise of them makes it feel like a crowd, all of them trying to get close to Oliver, throwing out constant questions.

“Mr Queen, why were you in Boston?”

From nowhere another man appears beside Oliver, shepherding him through the crowd. The way he’s hovering like a shield between Oliver and the reporters … shit, he’s a bodyguard. Oliver has a real life, actual, _bodyguard._

“Mr Queen, is the QC East Coast subsidiary in trouble?”

Unnoticed off to the side, Felicity watches Oliver become someone else. A smile appears on his face, good enough to trick the media - the flashbulbs are off again, capturing the moment for tomorrow’s papers - but she knows it’s not real. She’s seen Oliver smile and this isn’t it. There’s something off about it, something rehearsed, smug, and _wrong._

“Mr Queen, what can you tell us about your mother’s upcoming trial?”

“C’mon folks, you know the drill,” Oliver says easily, and even his voice is different - smoother and more careless. “I’m not gonna make any comments in the middle of the airport. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long flight, and a long day, I’d like to get home.”

And just like that, without a backward glance he’s gone.

The reporters drop their cameras at once, murmuring their disappointment as they disperse.

“What just happened?” Felicity asks aloud, to no-one in particular.

 

* * *

 

Ten minutes later, the shock of Oliver’s identity has fermented into something else.

Rage.

Pure, sweet, glorious rage.

Standing in an apparently never ending line for a cab, Felicity seethes silently, reliving all their interactions in a different light. The light of him being the CEO of her new company and not saying a god-damn word about it.

What a dick.

A dick who just so happens to be pulling up to the kerb beside her in his freaking limo, window down, contrition all over his face.

“You!” she growls, as the car glides to a smooth stop beside her. “What do you want?”

“Let me give you a ride?” Oliver offers, looking awkwardly around at the other passengers, most of whom are openly staring. “Please?”

“No,” Felicity snaps, folding her arms. The second she lets go of the handle on her suitcase it falls over, landing painfully on her toe. Kind of ruins the effect of her dignified rage to be honest.

“Felicity–”

“Why would I go anywhere with you?” she hisses, bending down to retrieve her case with as much dignity as she can muster.

“Please, just let me explain,” Oliver says earnestly, unblinking in the face of her vitriol. “If you still hate me after that then that’s fine, but hear me out first.”

“You know what, yeah!” She throws her hands up, letting her case fall again. “I want to hear this. I want to hear what you can possibly have to say to justify–”

Somewhere in the middle of her rant, the bodyguard she’d spotted in the airport appears at her side, smoothly leaning down to grab her case for her.

“This is John Diggle,” Oliver says, nodding to his companion. “He’s my driver, among other things. John, this is–”

“Yeah, hi,” Felicity snaps, distracted, before immediately thinking better of it. Abandoning her rant at Oliver, she follows the bodyguard around to the trunk, where he’s lifting her suitcase in easily. With one hand. What the hell? Do all the men in Starling City have arms like this?

“Sorry, that was really rude,” she says, clapping a hand to her forehead and massaging the skin there, where she can feel a headache brewing. “I’m mad at your boss, not you.”

“No problem,” the bodyguard - John, was it? - says, offering his hand. “John Diggle."

“Felicity Smoak.” She raises her voice, hoping it will carry into the car. “See? Full names! I wouldn’t be in this mess if your boss had done that in the first place!”

“You should tell him that,” John encourages, grinning at her now.

“I will,” she says, nodding at him. “Nice to meet you, John.”

“Dig,” he corrects. "That's what my friends call me."

“Dig,” she repeats, smiling. “Got it.”

“So where ‘we heading, Felicity?”

“Oh right!” She pulls up her hotel booking on her phone, showing him the address. “I don’t get my apartment keys until tomorrow.”

“No problem, it’s not too far from here.”

“Oliver doesn’t like … own the hotel or anything, does he? ‘Cause honestly, that’d be just my luck today–”

“Oliver doesn’t own any hotels that I know of,” Dig promises, stepping around to open the door for her, smirking all the while.

“You’re enjoying this aren’t you?”

“Go get him, Felicity.”

 

* * *

 

“You know, you should really change your photo on the company website,” Felicity says, by way of hello, as soon as she slides into the backseat.

Oliver blinks, completely lost.

“How was I supposed to recognise you?” She shoves her phone under his nose so he can see the page she’d been looking at before he pulled up. “How was I supposed to know that you don’t look like a baby faced serial killer anymore?”

From the front seat, Dig snorts a laugh.

Oliver grumbles his annoyance, pressing a button somewhere beside him that raises a screen between the driver’s seat and the back of the car. Dig throws her a wink in the mirror before he disappears from sight.

“Well?” She peers at Oliver, glaring over the top of her glasses. “You wanted to explain. So explain.”

“I thought you might want to yell some more first.”

“Don’t sass me, _Mr Queen_.”

“Ok, ok,” Oliver says placatingly, raising his hands. “I’m–”

“Actually,” she interrupts again, before he can get a word in, “why were you even on that plane?! I mean, I know you said you don’t usually fly coach but -- y-you’re a billionaire! I bet you don’t even fly commercially!"

"I do have a jet," Oliver admits. Easily. Like you might say you didn't take the car. "But-"

“Oh my god.” Felicity presses herself back into the seat, trying to ground herself. Except it doesn’t work because all she can think is how freaking soft the leather is in this car, which makes sense because it’s not a car, it’s a limo, which is no big deal to Oliver because he has - she says it aloud - "A jet. You have a jet."

Just then, the car emerges onto the freeway and Starling City rolls into sight, the skyline stretched out on the horizon.

One of those skyscrapers is the Queen Consolidated Building, Felicity realises, with a jolt.

That Oliver _owns._

He has a building with his name on the side.

Oh, and did I mention a jet?

A fucking jet.

Felicity breathes in through her nose, out through her mouth, just like the internet taught her. Calm. Slow. Relax.

Yeah, no, nope. Not happening.

“So what, d’you just take random flights to pick up unsuspecting women–”

“What? No!” Oliver flinches, like she’s just slapped him. “I didn’t want this trip all over the papers, that’s all. There’s enough talk about the East Coast office without me taking a very public trip there. I was just trying to slip by the media, I swear.”

“Well,” Felicity scoffs, a little hysterical, “I think _, I think,_ they might have noticed.”

“The text I got in the airport, that was Dig warning me they were out there,” Oliver explains, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “I really wasn’t trying to trick you, Felicity–”

“Yeah right,” she interrupts, batting her balled fists against the leather seats. “I bet you were laughing your ass off inside weren’t you–”

“It wasn’t–”

“Just dying to get back into the office and tell all your buddies in the boardroom about the dumb blonde you’d have banged if only the paps weren’t there–”

“Woah, hey, enough!” he says roughly, blue eyes blazing with indignation.

Felicity swallows down her next retort, breathing hard.

Somewhere in the back of her mind it occurs to her that she just admitted she would have slept with him.

Well. That’s just great.

Sensing her hesitation, Oliver turns in his seat, seizing his chance.

“Felicity, I swear it wasn’t like that,” he promises, no trace of his momentary anger remaining. He looks weary to the bone and her heart clenches at the sight, despite herself.

“What was it like, then?” she asks, anger suddenly giving way to the teariness she’s been fighting off since he left her in the airport. “Because I was … I was really vulnerable on that airplane, Oliver, and–”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you,” Oliver says earnestly, making a sudden motion as if to take her hand but thinking better of it. “You were so worried about the flight and I just … I didn’t think it’d make it better if you realised you were sitting next to your new boss, that’s all.”

“You’re not even my boss,” Felicity mutters, huffing a little laugh at the absurdity of the situation. “You’re like my boss’s boss’s boss. Or something.”

Oliver laughs hesitantly, tipping his head back to rest lightly against the headrest.

Felicity finds herself staring at him, at the column of his throat as he swallows, and the line of his jaw, tense even in repose.

He turns his head back to look at her, blue eyes soft and thoughtful. “I just … I have some issues with … I guess you could call it anxiety, myself–”

“Oh my god, from the Island, right?” The Island where has trapped alone for five years. Shit. Felicity’s heart takes a nosedive. This is not where she imagined this conversation going. In her head, there was a lot more yelling. It was much more satisfying.

Oliver nods, brows drawing in. “I recognised the signs in you and I don’t know ... I wanted to help. I know how bad it can get.”

“I just–” She shrugs, still tearful. “I wish you’d told me the truth.”

“I tried to, after a while,” Oliver says, shrugging back just as helplessly, “but I couldn’t make myself do it. I knew when I did that everything would change–”

“Because you’re rich?”

“Because I’m Oliver Queen,” he says, as though the name is some foreign concept, something that isn’t his.

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Historically, people seem to think so," Oliver answers, without a trace of self pity. "And after the Undertaking..."

The Undertaking.

Queen.

Of course.

It all comes back to her. Screaming back. News reporters standing in the wreckage. Makeshift shelters in the streets. All those funerals. And that speech, looped over and over again on all the coverage - Moira Queen, tears in her eyes, _“I have been complicit...”_

Felicity hisses in a breath, her stomach turning. "Oliver, I … I didn’t think. I'm–"

“No, no, don't apologise. I wasn't trying to–" he trails off, casting around as if trying to find the words. “It’s not an excuse.”

“Maybe not, but it’s an explanation,” she says, still berating herself for not connecting the dots sooner.

“I still should have told you,” he says, shaking his head. “I am sorry, Felicity.”

He looks over at her, his blue eyes fixed on hers - desperate and shining and so fucking earnest, she can hardly stand to look at him. She wants … something, she doesn’t know what. To kiss him? To save him? To slap him? Who the hell knows. All of the above, probably.

“Oliver, I–”

Suddenly, the screen slides smoothly down, just as the car slows.

“Sorry guys, but we’re here,” Dig says, flicking an apologetic look over his shoulder. “This is your hotel, Felicity.”

“Oh! Right.” Disappointment courses through her, sharp and unexpected.

“There’s a Big Belly Burger around here,” Oliver supplies, catching her dismayed look. “If you want to talk some more?”

Felicity blows out a breath, considering it.

The sensible thing would be to say no. No, thank you, I’ll go inside now. I’ll see you in the elevator at QC someday maybe, but that’s it. Goodbye.

The thought makes her sad.

Sadder than it should.

Oh, screw it.

“I could eat,” she says instead.

**  
**

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Well. This is definitely not how Felicity imagined her first night in Starling City might go. But here she is, sitting at a table across from _Oliver Queen_ , two half eaten Belly Buster Meals spread out between them.

Shaking her head at the absurdity of it all, she stuffs another fry into her mouth.

See, that’s the great thing about being mad at him and about him being her boss. The door is shut on them dating now. It’s slammed shut. There are bolts on it. Padlocks. Which means she can eat this burger without a care in the world about how she looks when she’s cramming it into her mouth. Because this is _not_ a date.

Although.

OK, it sort of feels like a date, albeit a really weird one. Oliver paid, for one thing, and Diggle made himself scarce once they’d ordered which means they’re at a table for two even if it is a plastic one in a burger joint. Also her stomach keeps sort of … flipping over when he smiles at her.

But that’s probably nothing.

She’s still mad at him.

Officially.

“It’s good, right?” Oliver asks, sipping his milkshake.

“You weren’t kidding,” Felicity says, through a bite of burger. “It’s amazing. I even tweeted about it.”

Holding up her phone, she shows him the tweet.

“High praise,” Oliver says, smiling at the heart eyes emoji she’d used.

For the burger!

Not for him.

God.

“How come a billionaire eats at a fast food place, anyway?” Felicity wonders, unable to resist a little dig. “Don’t you only eat caviar or something?”

Oliver smiles a smile that isn’t really a smile at all, just a sad little quirk of his lips.

“What?”

“It’s just–” His hand plays idly with his napkin, tearing off strips. “That’s actually part of reason I didn’t tell you who I was.”

Felicity sets down her phone, thrown by the suddenly serious turn. “I don’t understand–”

"Ever since I came home, whenever people meet me they have all these–" He waves his hand, gesturing vaguely. "These ideas about who I’m going to be.”

“Because of the Undertaking?”

“Sometimes.” He nods, setting the destroyed napkin aside. “But mostly it’s about me.”

“You?”

His thumb moves restlessly, rolling circles over the fingers of one hand, and the urge to reach out and cover his hand with hers creeps up on her, a tremble of anticipation under her skin.

“Everybody sees me as ... Oliver Queen, the absent CEO. Or worse, as that dumb kid that I was before my father’s boat went down. I’d gotten used to it, really.” He rolls his eyes heavenward, the beginnings of a smile ghosting around his lips. “But then I got on that plane...”  

Felicity’s lips lift at the memory. Was it only this afternoon that she walked headfirst into him? Oliver shakes his head, laughing softly, and she wonders if he’s remembering the same thing.

“You were the first person that could see me as a ... _person_ ,” he says softly, like it’s a gift she’s given him, one that can never be repaid.

“Well, there was just something about you,” she allows, the words tumbling out before she can filter them.

Oliver beams at her, his whole face lighting up. It’s like watching him come alive. His eyes even crinkle at the edges and that’s just … unfair, basically. Felicity’s not sure her heart can take it. He should give a thirty second warning before he does something like this.

She returns his smile, watt for watt, and reaches out to cover his hand with hers.

Oliver ducks his head, embarrassed, and her stomach does this ridiculous swooping thing that honestly, she kind of put down to the turbulence when it happened on the plane. Except now they’re very much on solid ground. Nothing’s shaking, except the frantic fluttering beat of her heart.

“Ugh, I can’t believe we’re having a moment in Big Belly Burger,” she says, shaking her head and reaching for another fry.

When Oliver laughs, it's just about the best sound in the whole freaking world. He laughs like a man who hasn’t had much to laugh about, like the chance for joy is precious and rare, to be treasured. He laughs like he’s grabbing that chance with both hands.

Felicity’s pretty sure she can feel her heart growing about three sizes bigger in her chest.

 

* * *

 

You know that story about how fast food places are designed to be comfortable until they’re not? Like, long enough for you to eat your food but not long enough to make you want to linger?

Yeah, that’s totally a thing.

Felicity knows this because she can't feel her ass anymore. Like, at all.

She and Oliver finished the food and then just … stayed put. Things kept coming up - questions about the company from her, or more ideas from him about places she might like to see in Starling, and somewhere among all that the sun started to set beyond the windows. Oh, and her ass fell asleep. That too.

Realising the time, Felicity feels a fleeting pang of regret for poor Diggle, waiting out there in the car for hours while the two of them sit here making heart eyes at each other. Then she remembers the soft leather of those car seats and her sympathy evaporates.

“Can I ask you something?” Oliver says, leaning back against the back of the booth and draping an arm over it. “It’s a little personal."

“Figures.” She shifts about, trying to return a little feeling below the belt. Seriously, is his ass not totally frozen too? How is he so relaxed? “We’ve already exhausted every basic topic one would normally talk about on a first date.”

Oliver’s eyes widen, ever so slightly.

“Not that this is a date!” she corrects, so quickly that the words run into each other. “We’re not … I mean, obviously this isn’t a date. But you already know that. You’re my boss. Which you also already know.”

Smooth, Felicity. Good save.

“Right,” Oliver agrees.

It’s late, and she’s tired, so maybe she’s imagining it. But it’s quite possible that he looks a little disappointed. Interesting.

She shakes her head, making her glasses slip down her nose. “Sorry, you had a question. Fire away.”

“Why are you moving to Starling?”

“What d’you mean?”

Oliver taps his phone, a little embarrassed. “I googled you, when I first left the airport. And you are … remarkable, Felicity. You could have gotten a job anywhere in the world.”

She totally doesn’t need his validation. She knows she’s good, she’s got the diplomas and the student debt to prove it. But he is a freaking CEO, after all. He must be surrounded by remarkable people all the time and yet here he is, all smiles and open admiration, for _her._ She can’t help it, she glows a little at the compliment.

“So why here? Why QC?” Oliver grimaces, shifting awkwardly. “We’re not exactly everybody’s favourite company right now.”

“Honestly?” Felicity screws up the empty bag from her fries and pushes it aside, drumming her fingers on the tabletop. “I chose Starling because it wasn’t Boston.”

“What’s wrong with Boston?”

“Nothing, nothing at all. It was … comfortable.”

“And that’s bad?”

“It’s boring,” she admits, shrugging. “I work in IT and I love it, I do. I love my work but it’s ... not exactly a whirlwind of excitement, y’know? I stayed in Boston after college because it was easy and then, I don’t know, too much time passed and one day I realised that I knew every single thing about my life. I knew where I would get coffee in the morning, which cars I’d see on my commute, what the specials would be every single day of the week at the diner by my office.”

She doesn’t add the rest, about the day she found herself staring at the walls of her cubicle until she couldn’t breathe, how she wound up sitting on the toilet seat in the office bathroom, crying big ugly sobs. How she was at that company for three years and not one person knocked on the stall door to see if she was all right.

“I tried baby steps, little changes,” she goes on, remembering the shaky resolve she found inside herself somehow, after that day. “I interviewed at QC East but they offered me something better out here. I figured the change could be just what I needed.”

“Well, we do have Big Belly Burger out here,” Oliver jokes, raising a mock toast with his empty cup.

Felicity laughs, shaken out of her melancholy. “Obviously that was the deciding factor.”

“Well whatever made you decide, I’m glad you did,” he says hesitantly, speaking mostly to the straw in his empty cup now. “I’m glad you got on that plane.”

It’s a vague rehash of the conversation they had earlier and she knows he realises it when his eyes lift, inch by inch, to her lips.

She looks back at him, stranger turned friend turned … who knows what, and realises that this is exactly what she wanted. The unknown. The new. It’s happening right now. Her stomach swoops in excitement.

* * *

 

By the time they’re standing out front of her hotel, it’s late. Which means it’s really, really late in Boston. Maybe even tomorrow. Felicity does the math in her head. Shit, it’s tomorrow in Boston.

So that’s why it feels like she’s been in these clothes _forever._

God, she needs a shower.

Oliver walks slowly at her side, making the ten paces from the car last twenty, at least.

“So,” she says slowly, coming to a stop just to the side of the entrance and propping her suitcase against the wall, then resting her purse on top of it. “Thanks for the ride. And for dinner. And for the whole calming me down on the plane thing. All of that. Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” Oliver swings his hands awkwardly at his sides, rocking on his heels. “Thank you for not hating me when you found out my name.”

“You’re welcome, Mr Queen.”

Oliver hisses in a breath, his eyes blowing wide.

Oh.

Oops.

That was supposed to come out lightly. Just a little joke. Not like, ridiculously throaty and sexy and dripping with innuendo. And now he’s looking at her like he wants to drag her into the shadows against the wall and have his way with her. She’s pretty sure she’s not breathing anymore.

The next word she’s looking for is goodnight. Or goodbye. See you around. Au revoir. Hell, at this point any words at all would do. Just string some syllables together. Make a noise. Anything other than just standing here, gazing up at him, _completely silent._

When she does finally remember her voice, she really, really wishes she hadn’t.

“We can’t date.”

Yeah. Silence was better than that.

She puffs out her cheeks, mortified.

“I mean, not that–”

“I know,” Oliver interrupts, apparently deciding to take pity on her. “I’m going to be your boss. We can’t date.”

“Yes, because of that!” she agrees, nodding a little too fast.

The prospect, however sensible, leaves her cold.

“But we could be friends?” she blurts, trying to look like it’s just a thought, no big deal.

Please say yes. Please say yes. Please say yes. Please say yes. Please say yes.

“I don’t know anyone here, except you. And your driver.” She waves a hand in Dig’s direction, which is totally unnecessary since Oliver knows who she’s talking about. And where he is.

Well, this is going swimmingly so far.

“Friends,” Oliver repeats, nodding his agreement. “I’d like that.”

Be cool.

“Grood!" She winces. Words, Felicity. Use _real words_. “I meant great, or good.”

Oliver huffs a little laugh, shaking his head fondly. “Got it.”

"Friends, then."

She offers her hand and he takes it immediately, closing his ridiculously huge hand around her small one and squeezing a little. His fingers are rough and warm, and the weight of them around hers feels almost familiar after so much time spent clinging to him on the plane.

She waits for him to let go and he just ... doesn’t.

Instead he takes a step forward, still not letting go of her hand. She tries to back up but there’s nowhere to go and her legs hit her suitcase where it rests against the wall. Oliver waits, giving her the chance to slip to the side where there’s more space.

Felicity swallows, thinking about it, but then his dark eyes are watching her chest when she breathes in and suddenly she’s moving forward instead of backwards, until she’s close enough that the heat of him steals across the space between them, enveloping her.

“I know this wasn’t a date,” Oliver begins, and his voice is suddenly different - quieter, rougher, and oh god help her, so much hotter. “But if it was, I’d tell you that I had a really good time tonight.”

He looms over her, so close that she can smell the fresh laundry scent of his t-shirt, and how is that fair? How does he smell like a freaking meadow, when they were both on the same gross plane for six hours?

“Me too,” she says dumbly, throat dry. His eyes follows her as she nods her head, up and down. “Really good.”

“And I’d ask you if I could take you out again,” he goes on, with a regretful little smile. “But I know I can’t.”

“Because this isn’t a date?” she says, in this voice that can’t be hers. She can’t really be sounding like this, all breathless and thoroughly turned on, when they’re standing in the middle of the street, fully clothed.

“Right.” Oliver nods, his voice now little more than a whisper. He sighs, all six foot-something of him practically quivering with anticipation. “But if it was, I’d–”

She wets her lips, her heart hammering in her chest. “If it was, you’d–”

His arm steals around her waist, pulling her flush against him.

“I’d—"

"You'd—"

Oliver closes the distance, covering her lips with his.

Well. _Finally._

Felicity sighs into the kiss, grabbing the tops of his arms to steady herself and OK, because she can, because he’s got damn good arms and she can totally grab them if she wants to right now. Seize the day and all that. Carpe biceps.

Oliver’s kiss is gentle and a little too desperate to be chaste, and over way too soon.

He pulls back, resting his forehead against hers. “Sorry,” he mumbles, voice a little ragged. “I just wanted to … once–”

Felicity surges up on her toes and kisses him back fiercely, cutting him off.

Oliver staggers back a little in surprise, recovering quickly and tightening his arms around her waist. His hands on her back are warm through her shirt, and restless, moving in strong strokes up and down her spine. She roams her hands up his arms and over his shoulder, locking her wrists at the back of his neck. When she opens her mouth to him, a whimper sounds in the back of his throat and fuck, she could fall over at that sound. She even feels herself weaken but he’s holding her up, the hard plane of his chest crushed against hers with strong arms and wow, that’s a feeling she could get used to.

For a moment, nothing else matters - that they shouldn’t be doing this, or that she’s been in these clothes for too long, and awake for even longer, She doesn’t even care that she’s got burger breath. He’s got it too, probably, but it doesn’t even register. Seriously. It's that good of a kiss.

Nothing matters except the press of his lips against hers and the way he trembles underneath her when she runs a hand through the short hair at the back of his neck.

It’s the best freaking kiss she’s ever had.

And it absolutely cannot happen again.

Oh.

Reality crashes in on her, common sense flooding back in.

Bad, bad, bad idea.

Friends don’t kiss like this. Or at all, really.

Felicity pulls back, breathing heavily.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” she says, huffing a laugh against his lips. “Should we?”

“No,” he agrees, pressing one last kiss against her lips. “We shouldn’t.”

“It can’t happen again.”

Oliver looks as crushed as she feels, which kind of makes things hurt more, not less.

“Agreed.”

He’s still looking at her lips.

Felicity takes a step back, slamming into her case again.

Oliver retreats too, running a hand over the back of his neck, right where her hand had been resting. Her breath flutters at the sight.

“I should–” She throws thumb over her shoulder, towards the hotel.

“Of course.” He edges back slowly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “It’s late.”

She grabs her case, shouldering her bag and trying really hard to look casual and not completely crushed. “Goodnight, Oliver.”

He breathes out a sigh, tipping his eyes to the sky. “Goodnight, Felicity.”

She’s halfway inside when he calls her name again. Pausing on the threshold, she spins back to him. He’s shadowed outside the reach of the lights in the lobby, just a tall, broad figure in the gloom.

“Friends, right?” She can hear the smile in his voice, even if she can’t see his face.

“Friends,” she agrees.

He walks backwards slowly, disappearing further.

“See you around, 35B,” she calls, once he’s almost out of sight.

His laughter drifts back to her, a rumble of amusement on the night air. “Oh, I’ll make sure of that.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!
> 
> Well. Not really. There's an epilogue, coming very soon ...


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

_Epilogue_

 

Three days after arriving in Starling City, it’s already starting to feel like home to Felicity.

She’s got her apartment almost sorted, the stuff she shipped from Boston arriving as planned the morning she got her key. She’s even mostly unpacked. Ok, the important stuff is unpacked. So just her computers, basically. Her new couch is due this coming weekend, so pretty soon she won’t even have to sit on the breakfast bar stools or the floor.

Queen Consolidated, on the other hand, still feels very new.

She has an office.

_Her own office._

Her name is on the door.

And she’s got a lot of people under her.

Her first day, she was whisked off on a whirlwind tour to meet them all. Everyone smiled and waved and pretended not to notice when she walked into the side of a desk on the way out. She figures she’s going to like them all, if only for that.

The building is modern and clean, lots of shiny glass doors and weird artwork of abstract patterns.

Apparently there’s a great staff restaurant somewhere downstairs.

And a gym.

She really wouldn’t know.

At this point it’s a relief that she can find the bathroom and that’s only because Erin in the office next door has taken to calling out the directions whenever she sees Felicity hesitating in the hallway. Left, right, then on your left. Felicity likes Erin a whole lot. Her bladder likes Erin even more.

She hasn’t seen Oliver again, but they’ve kept in touch since the day of the flight - texts here and there, mostly more ideas for places she should check out, and then a good luck wish for her first day.

Then this morning, out of nowhere - an email from the CEO. She almost choked on her cup of coffee when she saw his name in her inbox, his actual name, not the public account that everyone knows is really just his assistant. This one isn’t even in the address book.

The email was short, just a link to the external QC website where she found an updated picture of Oliver. She snorted, remembering her tirade about the outdated image that used to be there. In this one, he looked exactly as she remembered him - bright blue eyes and a jawline to die for. Except …  she’s never seen him dressed like this. If he’d been wearing that dark grey suit and tie on the day they met, it’s quite possible she’d have taken him upstairs, consequences be damned. It’s a really good suit, OK?

But they’re just friends.

Nothing more.

Their messages have been friendly, maybe even a little flirty, but that’s it. No mention of the kiss that she’s still reliving, pretty regularly, whenever she has a spare ten seconds. Sometimes, even when she hasn’t. Somewhere in the middle of the really boring Health & Safety seminar on her second day she spent an enjoyable minute or two remembering the little whimper in the back of his throat when her tongue had brushed against his for the first time.

She’s still thinking about Oliver’s tongue, actually, when the door to her office swings open and the man himself appears.

“Oliver! What are you doing here?” she blurts, blushing as though he could possibly guess where her mind was when he appeared. She shakes her head. “Sorry, forget I said that. You own the building. Obviously, you can be here. You can be wherever you want.”

Oliver gives a little laugh, shaking his head like he’s forgotten she can ramble quite so spectacularly.

“What’s up?” she tries again, deciding to just breeze past the whole embarrassing greeting.

“I came to see how it’s going,” Oliver says, slipping the door closed and coming inside.

Crap, he’s in a suit. Not just any suit, either. It’s the same one from the company photo - dark grey, cut to perfection. Oh. Mother, may I?

“Good, thanks,” she says quickly, realising she’s been staring and not actually answering him. “Everyone’s really nice.”

Get a grip, Smoak.

You kissed the guy, surely you can manage to talk to him.

“I was also kind of hoping you could help me with something,” Oliver says, screwing his face up in an apologetic wince. “It’s actually an IT problem, which is why I thought of you–”

“Of course! I’m your girl.” She freezes, hearing the words as she says them but powerless to stop herself. “Not your girl-girl, I mean. Your IT girl. Your employee, even.”

She groans, leaning back in her office chair until it tilts. “You can stop me at any time.”

Oliver laughs, shaking his head.

“I was at my sister’s club, Verdant, using her computer,” he explains, dropping into the chair opposite her. “And I spilled scotch on her external hard drive.”

He drops it onto the desk between them.

Huh.

That’s … unexpected.

Felicity stares down at the drive, then back at Oliver.

He just smiles blithely, not saying a word.

“Really?” she says, poking the edge of the hard drive with her pen. “Because that looks like a bullet hole.”

“Verdant is in a bad neighbourhood,” Oliver answers guilelessly.

What?

Felicity waits for him to cave and explain what the hell is really going on.

He doesn’t.

She cocks her head at him, not sure whether to laugh.

“If there is anything you can salvage from it, I would really appreciate it.”

Wait, he’s actually serious.

He’s dropped a bullet-ridden hard drive on her desk and he’s really not going to explain it.

Felicity looks at it again, then back at him, considering her options. She could shove it off her desk and pretend this whole weird conversation never happened. She probably should. Bullet holes are rarely a good thing, after all. But Oliver’s looking at her like there’s an explanation waiting, a secret she can uncover, if she really wants to.

God help her, she loves a puzzle.

And OK, she kind of also really, really likes _him._ Enough to give him the benefit of the doubt apparently, bullet holes and all.

She hums her agreement and he grins, like he always knew she would.

* * *

The next morning, existing on about three hours of sleep and too many cups of strong coffee, Felicity sets one flash drive down on her desk and considers the second one, rolling it through her fingers as she weighs her options.

It still feels a little bit ridiculous.

It’s also the only thing that makes sense.

Oliver Queen, her friend, the billionaire freaking CEO of her company, is also–

She hisses in a breath, her chest tight with the knowledge she can’t share with anyone.

Except him, maybe.

If she’s right, he’s dangerous for sure. A killer, although not anymore it seems. But he’s also the guy she met on the plane, the one who held her hand because she was scared, and spoke so gently to her. He’s the guy who kissed her breathless outside the Best Western Starling City last week. And he’s also, she’s sure of this now, after all her hours of research, trying to do something good for this city.

After five minutes of staring at the second flash drive, she sends the email.

Oliver appears in her office two minutes later, breathing a little heavily, like’s he’s been running.

“What did you mean, my other office?” he begins, without a hello.

“Exactly what I said,” she says, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice. “Did you want me to bring the information to your office … or your _other_ office?”

“I don’t understand,” he says guardedly, dropping into the chair in front of her desk again.

“I think you do.”

“Felicity, what’s going on?”

Right. This is it. Time to decide. Felicity stares down at the two drives. She could just give him one. She could smile and shrug and pretend she doesn’t know what’s happening. Or she could help him do some real good for this city.

It’s not even a choice, really.

“I looked you up too,” she explains, nudging both thumb drives towards him.

“What are these?” Oliver asks, picking just one up.

“That one is the information you wanted from the hard drive,” she explains, nodding to the one in his left hand. “And the other one  … call it a resumé.”

OK, maybe she’s enjoying this a little bit now. What? He’s not the only one who is allowed to be all mysterious and vague.

Oliver frowns. “But you already work for me.”

“Not in the job I’ve got in mind.”

“I don’t understand,” he says cautiously, though the edge in his tone says he understands well enough.

“There’s four programs on there, and a text document explaining what you need to do to run them,” she says briskly, nudging the drive closer to him. “You need to run them as soon as possible, wherever your little cave is.”

“Felicity,” he begins warningly, losing his patience now. “What are they for?”

“Security,” she says simply, “in case someone else as clever as me decides to look into what you’re doing.”

Ha!

That stuns him.

He opens his mouth and closes it abruptly, fighting to keep a neutral expression on his face.

“If I’m wrong, you can just leave it right there,” she says, leaning back in her chair and letting the challenge settle.

Oliver cocks his head, considering her. He looks infuriated but curious too, in spite of himself. And maybe, just maybe, a tiny bit turned on?

It’s possible that’s just her.

Oliver heaves a sigh, half a smile stealing across his face.

And then – he takes the thumb drive.

Felicity grins, more than a little bit smug. “Good choice.”

Shaking his head, he backs out of her office, pocketing both the drives.

“I knew it,” she announces, to the apparently empty office.

Oliver laughs softly, from somewhere behind the slowly closing door.

* * *

Felicity hears from him again later that night, when she’s knee deep in books she’s been unpacking. They’re stacked in random piles around her and she can’t sort them out, can’t even concentrate enough to stop knocking them over every time she moves.

Because Oliver’s the _freaking_ vigilante!

Yeah, she’s still stuck on that.

It’s been less than a day, give her a break.

She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, wondering whether she really did the right thing, when her phone buzzes.

It’s Oliver. Or the Arrow, whatever.

However torn she’s feeling, not answering the call never even occurs to her.

“Hello?”

“Felicity,” he says, voice tight and almost nervous. “I’m a little stuck.”

“On?”

“Uh … step three,” he says, clearing his throat.

Oh!

He’s running it.

More than that, he’s actually acknowledging it.

And maybe even … asking for her help?

Woah.

“Tell me what’s happening.”

“I could,” Oliver says, a tempting lilt in his voice. “Or I could show you.”

She stands up abruptly, knocking over another stack of books. “Show me?”

“Everything,” he says, quite simply.

She gasps, the sound crackling down the line to Oliver.

Everything. The suit. The bow. The lair. Is it a lair - do they even call it that? Or is it a base? Holy shit, not important. Focus, Felicity.

“Felicity, it’s up to you,” he says quietly, when she doesn’t answer. “You don’t have to–”

“Yes,” she interrupts, surprised by the force in her voice. “Yes. Show me.”

“OK then,” he says, a smile evident in his voice. “Come downstairs.”

Two minutes and one disastrous trip over the cord of a lamp on her way out later, she tears out the front of the building, stuttering to a stop at the top of the stone steps down to the street.

Oliver’s on the sidewalk, the very picture of nonchalance - his arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles as he leans against a shiny black car. Well, at least it’s not the limo this time. She looks a bit closer. Oh. It’s just a Jaguar. No big deal.

She stutters out a hysterical little laugh.

Oliver waves in greeting, pushing off the car and taking the few steps up to greet her.

“You were outside the whole time?”

“I knew you’d say yes,” he says, shrugging.

“I’m that predictable, huh?” She folds her arms, feigning displeasure. Which is like, the farthest thing from the truth right now. The idea that he knows her well, well enough to share this with her, when it’s surely his biggest secret, speaks to something more than friendship or simple attraction. It’s _trust._

“Not exactly,” Oliver laughs, shaking his head. “I just knew you wanted to help. I mean, those programs you gave me? All that extra work on the other drive–”

“You noticed that, huh?”

“That you didn’t just salvage the drive? That you found me the target as well, using the information on there?” He sucks in a breath, releasing it as a laugh. “Yeah, Felicity. I noticed. Though I’ve got no idea how you did it.”

“I hacked Iron Heights,” she admits, shrugging.

“The prison?”

“Is that judgement I’m hearing?”

Oliver shakes his head. “Pride.”

Felicity bites her lip, fighting down a smile.

Oliver smiles in reply, but it doesn’t quite reach all the way to his eyes. He puts his hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. “I need you to be sure about this, Felicity. It isn’t always going to be easy. I’ll do what I can to protect you but–”

“I know what I’m getting into,” she interrupts, reaching up to pat his hand where it lays, warm and heavy, on her shoulder.  "The entire carton of ice cream I ate last night is my witness. I’ve thought about this, Oliver. A lot. I want in.”

He looks at her for a long moment, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

She’s about to marshal her argument, how it’s her life, her choice, how she can add so much to what he’s doing, when suddenly, he nods.

“OK. If you’re sure.”

“I am,” she agrees, shrugging his hand off and skipping down the steps and to head towards the car.

Oliver follows behind, stepping around her to open the car door and then sliding after her into the back seat.

Confused, Felicity looks to the front seat.

“Welcome to the team,” Diggle calls, turning around to smile at her.

“Of course you’re in on this,” Felicity says, snorting a laugh. “Look at your arms.”

Oliver and Diggle share a look that’s half amused, half confused.

“Hey guys,” Felicity muses, as the car pulls away from the kerb, “do you think we could swing by Big Belly Burger on the way? I’m starving. And I know we have like … crime to fight and all that, but we gotta eat, right?”

Diggle flashes her a look in the rearview mirror. “I’m going to like having you around, Felicity.”

She grins at his back, bumping her shoulder against Oliver at the same time. “Honestly, I don’t know how you two survived so long without me.”

Oliver smiles softly, dropping his head slowly until it’s right next to hers. “Me neither, Felicity,” he murmurs, oh so quietly, just for her ears.

She swallows hard, breathing in the clean, familiar scent of him. On the plane it meant safety, comfort, and warmth. Here on land, she finds it means exactly the same thing.

She looks at his lips, just as he looks at hers.

Yeah.

Just friends.

Who fight crime.

And made out that one time.

This should be no problem at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end (really, this time). 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who has enjoyed this little ‘verse.


End file.
